Dance With the Enemy (8 page)

Logan had left the hotel just before ten a.m. Mackie had given him the name and address of the passport counterfeiter, Thierry Djourou. Both the phone number Logan had found and the bar receipts linked Vincent to this man. And given his trade, it wasn’t implausible that his skills had been used to help some of the attackers in their scheme. The fact that Djourou was also a Muslim and, according to the French police, had tenuous links to some extremist groups also hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Djourou lived in Clichy-sous-Bois. Logan didn’t know the area, had never been there, but he knew of its notoriety. It was one of the most poverty-stricken areas in Paris, a melting pot of unemployment and disadvantaged ethnic minorities. It had been the centre of riots in 2005 that made headline news around the globe. The riots had been sparked off after two local teenagers were accidently electrocuted as they hid from the police, who were allegedly pursuing them. Residents had long complained of police harassment and brutality. Friends of the boys claimed they had simply been playing football when they fled from a routine police patrol, fearing a confrontation with the officers.

Years later, tensions in the area remained on a constant high. Residents battled not only amongst themselves but with the police, who struggled to keep order. The majority of people living there were Muslims of Algerian and Moroccan descent. Djourou, though, was part of a growing population of immigrant Muslims from the Ivory Coast.

Logan had to get close to Djourou. He needed to find out
what he knew about the attack on Modena. More importantly, he wanted to find out what he knew about Selim.

He sat in a rented Fiat, which he’d picked up near the hotel. Before him was Djourou’s home: a ten-storey block of concrete, built in the sixties. It was decrepit, almost irretrievably it seemed. And yet it probably housed twice as many people as it was intended to, in conditions that many would have thought of as impossible in one of the most fashionable cities in the world.

But Logan had seen enough of the world to know that this was nothing out of the ordinary. Every major city had areas as bad, if not worse than this. Logan felt nothing but pity towards the majority of the residents of these ghettos. But he would never feel pity towards the likes of Djourou and the other criminals who lived amongst these communes, because they preyed on and exploited the vulnerability of their own people. And that was something that wasn’t acceptable to anyone, from any race or religion, in any country.

He got out the car and started towards the apartment block. Bin liners, car parts and broken household furniture were strewn across the unkempt lawns in front of the building. The small group of kids kicking a ball around out front had taken to using the road as their playing field rather than the heavily littered grass. They probably weren’t even as old as teenagers, but Logan kept his head down as he walked past them. There was no point in drawing attention to himself. It wouldn’t be the first such place he’d been to where it was these young children who were the watchmen for the gang leaders. He was relieved that they didn’t seem to take any notice as he went past them and up to the building entrance.

He was carrying a Beretta today, slipped into the back of his trousers. He was sure that Djourou would search him before he was willing to speak to him, but he’d kept the weapon on him deliberately. He hoped it would help to build trust with Djourou if Logan openly admitted to carrying it and handed it over to his host. That was the very reason he’d asked Mackie for a Beretta, which he’d been given at the hotel that morning, rather than the more usual Glock that he had carried yesterday. The Beretta had a safety catch, the Glock didn’t. And if he was going to hand his gun over to Djourou, he at least wanted that little bit of extra comfort.

Logan walked into the open stairwell. He noticed a bank
of lifts in the centre of the building, but he would get a better understanding of his surroundings by using the stairs, so he started up them. The stench of urine came and went as he made his way up the flights. The sound of TVs and stereos blaring, babies crying and couples fighting emanated from the nearby apartments as he approached each floor.

He reached the sixth floor and made his way towards apartment 609, walking down the exposed corridor which lined the front of the building. The door to this apartment was noticeably different to the others. It was made of metal, reinforced at the edges, and had a four-inch-wide square flap in the middle of it. Djourou was clearly a security-conscious man. Though it wasn’t exactly discreet. He may as well have had a big sign on the door that read:
Criminal lives here
.

Logan knocked on the door three times and waited. Ten seconds later the flap opened and a man’s face appeared in the hole. Logan couldn’t see enough of the face to figure out whether or not it was Djourou, but he assumed it wouldn’t be, given that he was the supposed boss of the counterfeiting operation and so was more likely to want to keep out of sight if he could.

‘I need to speak to Djourou,’ Logan said in English. ‘I was told he could help me.’

‘
Quoi?
’

There was a fair chance this guy didn’t speak much English, but Logan had a role to play here. He wanted to appear to be a needy foreigner, someone who was in trouble and was desperate for Djourou’s help. An easy ride for the African.

‘I have money,’ Logan said, waving his wallet in front of the open flap. Even this guy couldn’t misunderstand that. ‘I need a passport.’

The man slammed the flap shut without another word. Logan wasn’t altogether surprised. He knew how these guys operated. Part of it was about being careful, but part of it was a show. They would never just let a stranger in straight off. But money talks, and they wouldn’t want to turn away business. They wanted to know you were serious. And they wanted to know you were desperate. If you were both, then you were their ideal customer.

Logan waited a few seconds, then knocked again. The flap opened almost immediately.

‘I need a passport. I have cash. Euro. I have euro.’

The man shouted something in quasi-French at Logan. He couldn’t tell what it was, the accent was too strong. But he understood the sentiment.

‘Jean Vincent told me to come here. He told me to ask for Djourou. Are you Djourou?’

The barrel of a gun poked out through the flap. A single-barrel shotgun from what Logan could tell. This was it: he was either going to get an invitation inside or he was about to get his head blown off. He wasn’t sure whether to carry on talking, or even what more he could say. He thought of mentioning Selim. But even if Djourou and his cronies did know Selim, that may be a step too far. People didn’t just go around bandying his name about.

‘Please, you have to help me,’ Logan said. ‘I’m in trouble.’

He heard more voices inside but they were muffled and he couldn’t pick out any of the words that were said. The gun barrel disappeared and the flap was shut. A few seconds later the door creaked open.

Two men stood in the doorway. One was only about five feet tall, in his late twenties, Logan guessed, and was holding the shotgun at shoulder height, pointing it directly at Logan. He saw now that it was a Remington 870, a twelve-gauge pump action shotgun – one of the most common shotgun types and one of the most reliable. The other man was taller and older, probably close to fifty. He wore a stained white vest that showed off his lean physique. He was of a similar height to Logan but probably a stone or two heavier. The extra weight was more or less pure muscle.

‘What do you want?’ the taller man said. His English was good but with a strong African twinge.

‘I’m here to see Djourou. I was told he could help me.’

‘I’m Djourou. Who are you?’

‘I’m a friend. I know Jean Vincent. I was told you could help me.’

Logan saw the look of recognition in Djourou’s eyes when he mentioned Vincent’s name. He didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not. He knew his pretence would come to an end sooner or later. It was just a question of when.

‘I don’t know this Jean Vincent,’ Djourou said, less than convincingly.

‘He knows you. And I have money,’ Logan said, holding up his wallet again.

Djourou smiled broadly, exposing his nicotine-stained teeth, and said, ‘Then come inside.’

He moved aside and Logan walked in. He stepped past the two men and stopped in the hallway of the apartment. The place was dark and dilapidated. The walls were scuffed and pockmarked, the carpets stained and worn. The smell of tobacco and marijuana was almost overpowering.

Djourou shut the door and the little guy came round in front of Logan, still holding the Remington, still pointing it at Logan. Another man appeared from the room at the far end of the corridor. He staggered through the doorway, probably stoned. He was of a similar size and build to Djourou, with the same muscular physique, but he was noticeably younger, probably in his thirties, and he was wearing only a pair of shorts. In his hand was a gleaming machete.

Logan looked from the machete to Djourou.

‘If you’re a cop, we’ll kill you,’ Djourou said with no hint of emotion in his voice. ‘And it won’t be with the gun.’

Logan got the picture. The man with the machete gave him a toothless smile and held the oversized knife up to Logan’s face.

‘Are you a cop?’ Djourou said.

‘Do I look like one?’ Logan said.

‘No. If you did, you wouldn’t have made it inside.’

‘Then why did you bother to ask the question then?’

‘Because cops would know that,’ Djourou said, smiling again, ‘so would probably send someone who looked like you.’

Funny guy
, Logan thought. ‘Well, that makes sense. But no, I’m not a cop.’

‘My friend here will pat you down. Please put your hands in the air.’

Logan did as he was told.

‘Do you have a weapon?’ Djourou said.

‘Yes. A handgun. In my waistband.’

Djourou reached around Logan’s waist and pulled out the Beretta.

‘Nice,’ Djourou said, twisting it in his hand before aiming it at Logan’s head. ‘Anything else?’

‘No.’

Djourou nodded to the man with the machete, who handed his weapon to Djourou and proceeded to pat down Logan. It was a thorough search. These guys were being very careful – more careful than your average passport faker, Logan thought. Which meant they were probably up to something else in here as well. Drugs would be the obvious candidate, but it could be anything.

‘Okay, please come through,’ Djourou said.

He handed the machete back to the other man, then turned and walked towards the room at the far end of the corridor. There were four other doors that led off from the main corridor along the way: three open ones led into a kitchen, a bedroom and bathroom, and the final door was closed. Beyond was the room that would provide the answer of whatever else these guys were up to. But Logan wasn’t here for that.

The room that he followed Djourou into was a lounge. It had two worn-out sofas and a small portable TV that looked like it was at least thirty years old. The single window in the room was covered with a makeshift brown drape. There was also a table and cluttered bookcase in the corner containing what must have been the tools of the counterfeiting trade. It didn’t look like much. Without the guns and knives, Logan wouldn’t have suspected

Djourou of anything other than having an arts and crafts hobby. Djourou sat down on one of the sofas and indicated for Logan to sit on the other. The two accomplices remained standing, one on either side of Logan. He was glad that they were both in front of him where he could keep an eye on them.

‘Why do you think I can help you?’ Djourou said.

‘I told you, Jean Vincent said you could.’

‘So you keep saying. Who is this Jean Vincent?’

‘A friend.’

Djourou eyed Logan for a few moments before he spoke again. Logan could feel his heartbeat steadily getting faster from a mixture of adrenaline and anticipation.

‘What is your name?’

‘Ha, I’m not telling you that.’

Djourou laughed. ‘Okay, well, what is the name you would like me to put on your passport?’

‘John Burrows.’

‘John Burrows. Very English. And you say Jean Vincent said you should come here?’

Logan’s heart was now thudding in his chest, beating faster and faster in anticipation of what was to come. He had used the Jean Vincent ruse to get in, but he had never planned to leave with it still in place. And he knew that sooner or later events would head south. He just had to be ready.

‘Yes. I told you that already,’ Logan said. ‘Look, are we going to talk about Jean Vincent all day, or are we going to do business? How much is this going to cost me?’

Djourou laughed again. Louder, more deliberate. ‘How much will it cost? It will cost a lot. It’s going to cost you a lot. You see, John Burrows, let me tell you how it is. Yes, I know Vincent. I met him through a friend. Vincent was a nobody. He was a courier. A dogsbody. He did whatever I wanted him to do for a little bit of money. And it didn’t take much. He was a cheap man. But because I know the circumstances of how I met him, I seriously doubt he recommended me to you.’

Logan shifted in his seat. He had expected that this point would come. It had been the downfall of using Vincent’s name to get in. But he hadn’t had much else to go with.

‘So,’ Djourou said, cradling Logan’s Beretta in his hand, ‘you need to tell me, John Burrows. Why are you
really
here? And if you don’t give me an answer I like –’ Djourou nodded over to his accomplice with the machete ‘– well, you can use your imagination.’

Logan remained silent. Tried to stay calm. At least on the outside. He didn’t want to show any sign of weakness to these guys.

He looked over at the little man. Then at the one with the machete. They were both smiling at him. But neither was coming for him yet. They were waiting on Djourou to give them a signal.

But the initial ruse was over now. Everyone in the room knew that there would be no business transaction taking place today. Djourou smiled. His little accomplice began to laugh and Logan glared at him. But he just shrugged his shoulders and carried on laughing, the shotgun still held high.

‘One chance, John Burrows,’ Djourou said. ‘Tell me who you are and how you found me, or I’ll kill you myself. And please don’t think that I’ll make it a pleasant experience. We wouldn’t be able to carry you all the way down those stairs in one piece. I’m sure you know what I mean.’

‘I
could
tell you who I am,’ Logan said, doing his best not to betray any emotion, ‘but then I’d have to kill you.’

Logan cracked a smile.

The room went silent again. A deathly silence.

Djourou frowned, then smiled, then frowned again. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether Logan was serious or not.

Logan carried on smiling back at him.

Djourou had placed Logan’s gun on the sofa next to him. His right hand was caressing it. Logan could see that the safety was still on. He’d made sure of that before he’d handed it over and Djourou hadn’t yet taken it off. No matter what was about to happen, that would at least give him a couple of seconds.

‘All I want is information on who Vincent was working for,’ Logan said. ‘Who you are working for.’

Djourou shrugged, and Logan took the gesture as encouragement to carry on.

‘Are you and your two commandos really sure you want to die over this?’ Logan said. ‘I’m just after some information, then I’ll go. I’m not the police. You must have at least figured that out by now.’

Djourou’s hand twitched. Then he made the move. His fingers reached around the butt of the Beretta and he cursed as he lifted it up off the sofa.

But Logan had already prepped himself for the moment. Long before Djourou had gone for the gun he’d shifted his weight so that he could spring into action at the right moment. He dived forward to the right, where the man with the shotgun was standing. The little guy was too slow to react and didn’t even attempt to move out of the way as Logan tumbled into him. The gun went off as the two men fell to the floor. Pellets from the shot flew up into the ceiling.

The little man was no match for Logan’s size and strength. With his foe still holding onto the gun, Logan manoeuvred the barrel. He pointed it towards the machete man, who was almost upon him, pulling back the blade in an almighty arc. Only a few seconds later and Logan would have been sliced in two. But as the machete came down towards Logan’s head, he pumped on the shotgun, loading the barrel. He squeezed on the little man’s trigger finger. The shot hit the machete man in the centre of his chest. A dozen or more holes opened up as he was propelled backwards.

Logan heard Djourou pull on the trigger of the Beretta. But he hadn’t released the safety and nothing happened. Logan was still on top of the little man. He elbowed him in the side of the skull. Once. Twice. Three times. The blows came in quick succession, knocking him out cold. The man loosened his grip on the shotgun enough for Logan to prise it away. Still on the ground, he pumped the barrel once more, loading another shot.

He pointed the gun at Djourou.

At the same time, he heard the click as Djourou unlatched the safety.

Taking out the two henchmen had taken just a few seconds.
Not even enough time for Djourou to make a shot. The African could do nothing but look on at Logan, stunned.

But both men were now locked and loaded, their weapons pointed at their targets. It was a stalemate.

And neither man fired.

Djourou was wide-eyed. He looked scared. He obviously wasn’t used to things not going his way.
Well, he’d better get used to it
, Logan thought.

He got to his feet, keeping the shotgun pointed towards Djourou.

‘Who the
hell
are you?’ Djourou said. ‘
Batard!
’

The machete man groaned. He was still alive. Just. But he had enough shot in him to make sure he would stay down at least for now, if not permanently. The little man was out for the count. But he’d come round eventually. Logan wouldn’t forget about him just yet. Right now, though, his focus was on Djourou.

‘You know, that gun’s got a double-safety,’ Logan said, bluffing. ‘I don’t think you’ve released it properly.’

Djourou laughed. He obviously wasn’t completely stupid; Logan could tell that Djourou knew the claim was bullshit. But it didn’t matter. With the thought put in his head, Djourou couldn’t resist the momentary glance to double-check that he’d released the safety properly.

It was enough for Logan.

He dived to his left, firing as he fell. Djourou fired as well. But he hadn’t counted on the moving target. Logan’s shot caught Djourou just below his left knee. A dull thwack sounded as the ball bearings tore through muscle and bone. Djourou screamed in pain. He dropped his aim, clutching for his stricken limb with his free hand.

Logan was on his feet immediately. He lunged for Djourou’s gun hand. It didn’t take much to take back his Beretta. He took it in his right hand, pressing the barrel up against Djourou’s forehead.

‘So,’ Logan said, smiling. ‘Do you still want to know who I am?’

Djourou looked up at him. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. His nostrils flaring as he struggled to keep his breathing under control.

‘I’ll take that as a no,’ Logan said. ‘So let’s start with you then. Tell me about Vincent. Who introduced you? And why?’

Djourou exhaled loudly through his nostrils and stared coldly into Logan’s eyes. Logan knew he was trying to show that he wasn’t scared. But Logan wasn’t buying it. This guy was scared all right.

Logan nudged the barrel against Djourou’s forehead, as if prompting him to speak. But Djourou remained silent. He wasn’t going to give the information up easily. If he had been prepared to kill Logan over this, just like that, then chances were whoever he was protecting was someone big.

But Logan was sure he could persuade Djourou to tell him.

He pushed his knee against Djourou’s injured leg, grinding it against the open wound. Djourou shrieked in pain. But Logan didn’t let up. He kept the pressure on as Djourou’s shrill scream got louder and louder. And saw the look of defeat slowly creep into the injured man’s eyes.

‘Just give me a name. I can make this much worse for you if you don’t.’

‘Okay!’ Djourou yelled.

Logan took his knee away.

‘I’ll give you his name,’ Djourou said, panting heavily as he talked. ‘I never worked for him before. I was introduced through a mutual friend. Blakemore. Richard Blakemore. He’s English, like you.’

‘And who the hell is he?’

‘Blakemore. That’s his name.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘I don’t know! He came to me. But I think he’s here. Somewhere near Paris.’

‘What do you know about Rabah Assad? And Youssef Selim?’

‘What?’ Djourou said, shaking his head. The panic in his voice was growing further. ‘I’ve never heard of them!’

He was lying. Everyone knew of Selim. But it didn’t matter. Logan was done here. He had what he came for.

And he’d been here too long already. There’d been four shots fired. Even if the police didn’t like coming to this part of town, Logan had to assume that they’d been called. And if that was the case, they’d be here sooner or later. He wanted to be long gone by the time they showed up.

‘Richard Blakemore?’ Logan said, putting the Beretta back into his waistband. ‘Let’s hope you’re right about that.’

As he turned to walk out of the room, he saw the look of surprise on Djourou’s face.

‘Who
are
you?’ Djourou shouted as Logan walked towards the front door.

He smiled. Djourou probably had no idea what had just happened to him. Logan knew exactly what he was thinking: Logan couldn’t be a cop, otherwise why wasn’t he being arrested? And if he wasn’t a cop, then who the hell was he and why was he letting him live?

Logan stopped at the door, still smiling. ‘Like I already said. I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.’

He opened the door and left.